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| NOTES FROM THE COFFEE SHOPPEE In Cranberry Country it's the Cranberry Bog Coffee Shoppee where everyone knows your name - as well as how you take your coffee and what donut Sally and her coffee shop staff have waiting for you. Join Sully, Mitchell the Twin, Nicole, Senator Van Ort and the cast of locals who opine about all the goings-on in the Cranberry Countrry area, from their booth found in the back, just past the rack with the TV and cars-for sale listings. Since 1989, Free Bird TImes and Capeway News columnist Paul Lazarovich has brought you inside the shoppee for a look and listen at the "hot topics" (OK, it's the coffee that's hot!") of Cranberry Country.
We've included a few of his "Notes From the Coffee Shoppee" columns, here.
Hope you enjoy reading them..
========================================================================= Notes from the Coffee Shoppee My Mother's Recipe: Baked Ziti by Paul Lazarovich
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| My mom died this past December-Two weeks before Christmas.
Approximately thirty-three months after having started chemotherapy.
Nearly three-plus years after she and Dad had learned that the night sweats, re-occurring back pains and the constant tiredness was actually a killer that had taken over her unsuspecting body. My Mom had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.
In the recesses of my mind I hid the fact that my mom was sick. That she was going to die. I purposely pushed aside the doctors' reminders that they weren't sure how long she would be with us – “ten months, ten years." "This happens to other people. It can't be real. A plot line for an episode of ER. Not my mother," I thought.
I recall after she had stopped her chemotherapy, how reassured I felt in seeing her progress. Things seemed wonderful. It was a period of over a year during which Mom was herself again: playing with her cherished two granddaughters, getting her hair done, shopping every Thursday at Stop and Shop. Her spirit - along with her hair and love for life - had returned. She was even arguing with Dad - just like old times.
Give or take a few pounds on her dying body, my mother's return had me fooled. Forgetting that she was living on borrowed time, I tossed aside the "ten-to-ten" sentence the specialists had handed down. I was too frightened to ask when her time would be up. It's my Mom. Hell, after all, she was supposed to live forever. See MY kids get married.
When I last saw her - tubes running in and out of her body, an electronic device spitting out jagged lines that informed us she had only days left - I still couldn't fathom that this was happening to my Mom - that once beautiful twenty-two year old kid who said "I do" to Dad fifty years ago.
She died the next morning on December 9.
Christmas and New Years passed. And although Mom wasn't present for the season that meant so much to her, I tossed it aside, telling myself that she was still in the hospital. During that past year she was hospitalized - on and off from April until about September. I had gotten used to driving into Boston, asking “how's it going, ma" or celebrating another holiday - like Mother's Day - with Mom hospitalized. She - always informing me that things were going fine and she was hoping to get out soon. Me - safe in believing her lie.
It was only until a short while ago, February 9, to be exact, however, when it finally hit me. My Mother was dead. She was no longer there.
It wasn't an epiphany or a glimpse at an old picture that did it. Wasn't even the reminder card from the funeral home that sat on our refrigerator.
It was baked ziti.
Before then, Wednesdays usually meant baked ziti at our house. Kate worked on Wednesdays. Left with the task of serving dinner to our two hungry daughters - a dinner that wouldn't include a burger, french fries and a toy - I would make the filling pasta dish that my mother had taught me.
Though she had repeated the recipe, close to a hundred times according to my wife, I never wrote it down. Nor did I commit it to memory. What this translated into was a ritual. Ok, more like an ongoing comic battle of sorts. My mother - on the right (she WAS right) - demanding that I jot down the recipe's few steps. And on the left, me. Teasing and begging her to tell me how to make baked ziti - "just this last time, Mom. Honest. I’ll write it down."
The Wednesday recipe ritual carried on for over four years. Usually in the form of an afternoon telephone call that sounded like this:
ME: "Hi, Mom." (Stated very quickly so she would not have the chance to ask if I was going to ask about the recipe). "I'm uh, making the girls that recipe again. Say, uh, is that 350 ° or 325 ° I'm supposed to bake the ziti in?
MOM: "Paul, didn't you write that down? (Sternly) Now what do you think it is?" It's 325!"
ME: "Oh yeah, 325, I remember." (Very quickly to catch her off guard) How's dad, now do you glob spaghetti sauce directly on the bottom first, then add the ricotta mix?"
MOM: (Not catching on at first) "Dad's fine. He's...( Angrily) Oh, I told you it's sauce on the bottom! How come you haven't written this down. I’m going to crown you"
Our "Who's On First" routine would go on for about ten minutes. Chuckling, I would end the call, delighted to have continued our ritual. And I would hang up - assured that I'd never have to write down that recipe.
Until last month.
You see, I hadn't made baked ziti since about the early summer. Mom was home and feeling better then, and I prepared my youngest daughter's favorite dinner only after our Abbott and Costello conversation took place. Until then, however, I realized that I hadn't made baked ziti since she fell ill - and never made that dish unless it was preceded by my call.
As I was preparing to make her ziti dish on that chilly February day, I picked up the phone. Then quickly hung up.
I realized that she was no longer there. She was gone. My mother was dead.
And I couldn't quite remember. Was it 325 ° or 350 °?
And I could not ask her.
And I hadn’t written it down.
My mom died this past December - two weeks before Christmas.
Copyright Cranberry Country Communications all rights reserved |
You can find other "Notes from the Coffee Shoppee" by the author at: ======================================== Notes from the Coffee Shoppee Uncool on the road: In my "Dad" car by Paul Lazarovich (originally appeared in the Free Bird Times)
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It may not be as famous as that bar up in Boston, but it's the Cranberry Bog Coffee Shoppee where everyone DOES know your name - along with how you like your coffee and what donut you'll choose. And it's there where you'll find the author, along with Mitchell the twin, Nicole, O'D, Sully (the Shoppee's resident sage and know-it-all), and the cast of regulars who call the Shoppee home ,each and every Saturday morning.
CRANBERRY COUNTRY - Its shape, its size the accessories. From the built-in child seat to extra holders for sippee cups, the separate compartments for toys. Ah, yes, and the LACK of fine Corinthian leather. It shouts out its message - loud and clear - for all those to hear as they zip along side me as I drive to and from work each day.
"I am a Dad. I am driving an official "Dad Car." I am no longer cool!
You remember. It's the kind of vehicle that, when I was 15-years-old, I made my best friend Mitchell swear that if he EVER caught me driving such a car when I became old - you know, over 30 - he had explicit orders to hold my head underwater until I came to my senses.
But now, as an "official Dad," I was driving that EXACT kind of vehicle that every teen-aged male vowed on a stack of bibles - and under penalty of being labeled uncool - that he would never be caught dead in.
And not only was I driving one, but - gasp - I actually owned this "Dad car."
My my. How things have changed since I was wiser and, obviously much cooler in my younger years.
Back then, I wouldn't be caught dead in a "Dad car."
Even if it were the only vehicle remaining in the world, moments after an A-bomb invasion of my neighborhood spearheaded by the Nikita Krushchev-led Communist forces required me to be rushed to the hospital because of the four chocolate Yoo-hoos I had gulped in an effort to wash down the five Hostess Snowballs I devoured - in what I determined to be my last supper here on earth.
And the Emergency Broadcast System warning heard on my transistor radio indicated that this was NOT a test. And I had to get to the hospital, immediately. No way in H-E double toothpick was I going to be whisked away in my Dad's car!
THAT car? Yeah, right! Id rather die at the hands of enemy forces than be driven in "that excuse for a vehicle," I told everyone.
But that was a long time ago. Or at least it seems so.
Because most days as I drive off to work, I am unabashedly seen by all. In a vehicle that screams, "I AM A DAD!" to everyone within earshot of my all-news-radio-station-blaring, family minivan.
This afternoon as I pull alongside of that carload of giggling teenaged girls, I no longer have any thoughts - nor any chance - of capturing their eyes just like my buddies and I might have years ago in our cool cars.
Especially when I vaguely recall how minivans emit a low-level frequency, audible only to teenagers. And heard loud and clear in that sporty convertible filled with those "hot babes," the signal blasts out "Warning. Warning. Do not come near. Stand clear. This man has a complete collection of Barney the Dinosaur DVDs at home. I am a Dad. I am in a "Dad Car." Uncool. I've been to a Wiggles concert!"
And as to why I no longer get the "thumbs up" from way-cool, baseball-capped teens and twenty-somethings maneuvering their stylish SUVs on the open road? Surely it had to be their allegiance to the oath that I too was once sworn to - "To honor, obey, and never be seen in such a vehicle. Until at least 30."
Driving my "Dad Car" certainly brings back memories of my buddy's old man's vehicle.
You know the car. Every neighborhood had one. That big station wagon. With the imitation wood grain on the side? Complete with plastic seat covers that became part of your anatomy during those steamy summer drives to the beach.
I recall how delighted I was in teasing my friend about it. Tormenting him about how uncool it was. Especially with its orange tennis ball strategically placed on that beach wagon's radio antenna - so his mom could easily spot it in the A & P parking lot.
Was it that long ago while ridding in that car that we would BEG my buddy's dad to keep the windows CLOSED, so we wouldn't be seen in it. As we faded in and out of consciousness in the back seat - overcome by the car's pine-scented air fresheners and his dad's nasty cigars.
Somehow, that inherent desire for maintaining my coolness had become replaced with a need for - practicality. How and when it happened? I can't quite put my finger on it. But becoming a Dad just happened, it seems.
And owning a vehicle cool enough to carry me and my best buddies, beach gear, coolers, sporting equipment, cassettes and my steadygirl asking me to "slowdown, will ya?" - had somehow magically transformed into a van.
One today, that as a "Dad Car" more importantly can handle strollers, juice boxes, Goldfish crackers and Disney soundtracks, along with a wife and our two daughters constantly inquiring, "are we there, yet, Dad?"
This morning I adjust my car's rear view mirror, my weary eyes catching the remains of an "I Am The Proud Parent Of An Honor Student" bumper sticker on the back window. And with my wingtips stuck to a Juicy Juice soaked floormat, and my body comfortably slouched in my family van's lumbar support seat, being uncool no longer mattered.
I turned the key in the ignition and like most mornings happily headed off to work.
My mouth wide open, singing along to Disney's Lion King "The Circle of Life." Blaring loudly for all to hear.
Uncool on the Road.
Smiling - and happy.
In my "Dad Car."
You can find other "Notes from the Coffee Shoppee" by the author at:
Notes from the Coffee Shoppee Last of the Hairy Chested Guys by Paul Lazarovich (originally appeared in the Free Bird Times) Can you believe it? Ads for laser hair removal. Athletes shaving their chests; magazine ads containing smooth-chested male models without one, single strand of…..........hair?
I truly am a member of another generation.
"Hey, I bet he don't need no sweater in the winter, huh guys?" snickered the six-foot something, twenty-something. His "something" said loud enough to resonate among the nearby lockers, intended to rebound toward me.
Chuckling and rib-jabbing his buddies, the ringleader and his band of merrymakers (making merry at my expense, that is) continued their men’s locker room glares and comments.
I hastily threw on my favorite workout shirt, pretended I didn't see them, grabbed my Evian water and ran the stairs up to the courts. I turned, made sure they were gone, and then muttered so that no one would hear me, "Lucky for you, misters! "
Lucky for all of them, all right! For I had maintained restraint, successfully avoiding having to teach them a lesson. The moral of which they would never forget - "Walker, Texas Ranger" style!
But to be honest, I’ve never retaliated.
Through the years I have had to learn and practice that rigid self-control. Today? It's second nature - able to keep myself in check whenever I hear the taunts or whispers. I am able to remain in the zone, with a stoic, faraway look in my eyes – sort of like Chan in "Kung Fu" - whenever I feel the stings of a strange stare; the chill of a chuckle, the jolt of a jocular jab.
Their comments, looks and snide remarks become especially prevalent during the summer months. At the beach, for example, I'd be part of the same scene, enacted over and over each season.
A red-faced Mom's "I'm sorry." Followed by her embarrassed attempt to hurry little Johnny along, sheepishly tugging his arm, when from out of the mouths of babes - echoing for all to hear- he lets go a parting shot, "But Mom, it DOES look like that man IS covered with seaweed, with seaweed…with seawee...with sea."
Lying on my blanket I'd get wind of parents and young couples using me as a living-lighthouse beacon. Eyes closed, basking in the rays of the summer sun, pretending I was asleep, I'd hear them. Helping their "significant other" recall his or her spot in the sand - or reminding the kids what to look for if they got lost. Their words so strikingly similar - and stinging.
"Just look for THAT guy," they'd say, pointing at me. A pause; a chuckle. "You know!"
Or to impress a girlfriend, from the young men I would inevitably hear, "Just look for HIM. We're on the blanket next to THAT guy. (Snicker). The one with the...(pointing to his chest)."
I got to admit, when I first heard the comments I was bewildered. Was I saddled with some unusual features? A Marsha-Brady-Getting-Hit-In-The-Face-With-A-Football swelled nose, perhaps? The cauliflowered ears of an Ultimate Fighter, maybe?
Certainly wasn't my well-tempered body of steel that caused their attention. I mean, I did play high school sports! Okay, not really. No one ever mistook me for Swartzenegger.
What then. Was it the cut of my clothes?
Was I now my father? Wearing the equivalent of white socks and shoes with an aqua color, leisure suit - embarrassing me at the high school Father/Son Banquet?
I had always considered myself sort of a fashion plate - knowing when to shed the flares, platforms and smiley-face clothing of one generation - keeping in tune and moving to the flares, platform heels and smiley-face clothing of another.
No, wasn’t my sartorial splendor. Could it have been the hairstyle? My mutton chop sideburns and moustache were ancient history. And my "Steve Perry from Journey" haircut was tossed aside years ago.
So, what was it?
To my great consternation, I learned that it was worse than what I had first imagined. Because in this matter - I had no choice. I had to play the hand I was dealt with. Dance with the gal I brung to the dance. I was a horse of a different color - saddled with what the Man Up Above - and family genetics - had left me.
For what adorned my body - proudly worn as a swaggering high school kid - and for what had once served as a backdrop for pukka beads, and, during the Travolta-Saturday-Night-Fever era - a gold chain - was no longer hip.
Today, I was uncool; outdated goods. A capital "U" as in Unhip. My chest bore the generation of today's scarlet letter. I was trapped in a body. One that - during a previous time - was naturally considered "cool," “in."
I was a hairy-chested guy!
Was it really that long ago when every guy like myself yearned for the Burt Reynolds’ look? I remember checking - on an almost daily basis - to see what God had brought forth to my bony, adolescent chest.
Why it seemed like only yesterday when those strands first appeared - eyed with great envy by my teammates in the locker room. Later, serving as the hot topic at the table where the cool cheerleaders sat. (At least I hoped so).
Back then, my hairy-chested brethren and I would find ANY excuse to wear V-neck sweaters, seven days a week - without a shirt! Even during record breaking ninety-degree days! Our cotton-fibered sweaters were carefully selected so that our "natural fibers" could be viewed by all.
In fact, hairy chest became a part of our lingo. "Your as cool as a moose - and twice as hairy," was a sought after compliment. While "eat all your vegetables; it'll put hair on your chest," prompted us to take a second helping of carrots at the dinner table.
Being hairy-chested also served as the basis of a running bad joke uttered by us guys hanging out on the corner - during our sophomoric, adolescent - non-politically correct - days.
The joke went something like this: Corner-Hanging Guy: "Hey, Sully. Your mom has everything a man wants!" Sully (Going along with the gag): "What dy’a mean by that?"
Corner Hanging Guy (laughing hysterically): "She has a deep voice, a low numbered license plate (dramatic pause) – and a hairy chest!"
OK. We weren’t the funniest guys around. But we didn’t have to be. We WERE cool. We had hairy chests!
But as I further advance into the 2000s it's clear that the tide has changed. And unlike the tide at the beaches - where I am pointed at and talked about - it appears that this one's not coming back anytime soon.
Being cool, nowadays, takes the form of those male TV show cast members - of the "One-Tree-Hill-Beverly-Hills-9010-The OC" type - with their smooth-as-frozen-cranberry-bog chests. Replacing us - disciples of the hairy-chest.
The idolized Mark Spitz hairy-chested swimmer's body of a generation past has been taken over by that new young Olympic swimmer kid guy - showing off his silky shaven chest. And after her won the butterfly event!
We’ve even been pushed aside by cool, once hairy-chested rock stars. Guys like John Bon Jovi – who have waxed, lazered, shaved, Naired or electrolysized themselves into bare, buffed beauties! Ah Robert Plante; will you ever forgive them?
In newspapers and men's magazines it continues. The countless ads that blatantly advertise laser hair treatments! To remove "unsightly chest hair" their ads scream!
Nevertheless, I did feel that I still had MY generation watching my back. Er, make that chest. However, to my horror, many of my brethren have fallen. In an effort to get back at being cool, they’ve taken advantage of the latest hair-removing technology. Today they wander - chest-hair free. Free from the fuzz that once was. "Just because," one ex-hairy-chested guy snottily informed me.
But it is a new era, and I am resigned to live with what the good Lord has blessed me. Though not without some modifications.
Today? Won’t catch me wearing a V-neck sweater without an undershirt.
I have added a large collection of t-shirts to my wardrobe – specifically to be worn AT the beach.
Scarves are worn without question. Turtlenecks have replaced my open neck shirts. And as I look to the future - I realize that ascots may soon find a welcome home in my walk-in closet.
Never again to proudly display my badge of courage, I live (or at least my chest hairs do) in hopes of someday rising up. Hoping that there will come the day when I will be able to hold my head high – and my hairy chest out.
Until then? I will remain, hairy-chest hidden.
But still - proudly unshaven!
For I am the last of the hairy-chested guys!
You can find other "Notes from the Coffee Shoppee" by the author at:
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